


A Tribute Carved Of Fig

by RootsOfOurRemiges



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient Greece, Gay male characters, Is It Voyeurism When You're Both Thirstily Watching The Same Wrestling Match, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pre-Relationship, References With Varying Levels Of Obscurity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:15:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28842981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RootsOfOurRemiges/pseuds/RootsOfOurRemiges
Summary: Just go make a nuisance of yourself in Olympia, they said. Work so simple you can practically turn your brain off and sleepwalk through it, they said.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	A Tribute Carved Of Fig

Crowley revelled in every bit of his terrible etiquette among a crowd. Hard to resist the sense of accomplishment when he bustled his way forward with a very full kylix of wine and found the perfect spot to stand: right in front of somebody who was just the _slightest_ bit shorter than him. A wayward elbow knocked into Crowley's ribs, and his overflowing cup lurched predictably right into the nearest pristine white chiton, whose owner had some choice words for an entirely uninvolved man while the real elbower vanished into the fray and Crowley offered little in the way of apology except a shrug. 

The lower authorities couldn’t complain he wasn’t doing his job. 

The games were already well into their first event, and if he was going to be sent all the way to the other side of the Mediterranean on assignment, and deal with all the chthonic customs paperwork just to be authorized to menace the local sporting events on his Hell’s behalf (he had to wonder what the point even was, trying to outsource souls like this — joint custody with Tartarus had to be a logistical nightmare) then at the very least his downtime from this blatant busywork was _absolutely_ going to be spent staying for the show and seeing what this whole spectacle was even about anyway. 

And, well.

Okay.

Look, it’s not as if Crowley hadn’t _known_ before setting out to make a nuisance of himself in Olympia that the renowned games followed a whole suite of traditions that included olive oil and prolific male nudity. But knowing that bit of amusing trivia wasn’t what he’d call a comprehensive primer for the gleaming muscular cocks-out _reality_ of it all.

Much less what to make of the fucking _angel_ present and witnessing the same. Definitely not part of the itinerary, one of Heaven's own being here — he'd checked. A couple times.

It was Aziraphale (of course, wasn't it always?) who was seated a little ways off on a nearby hill, and if noticing or acknowledging Crowley was part of his job then he was _unquestionably_ skiving off, if he was even here on business at all. Crowley may as well have been wholly invisible to him, fixed as he was on the arena and the pair of combatants within, thoroughly taken with the two burly male bodies that were shining with oil and sweat as they strained against one another in riotous competition. 

For his part, Crowley didn't think he could have missed noticing Aziraphale if he'd tried. 

Aziraphale certainly stood out well enough among the sea of the audience as it was, bright platinum hair reflecting the sun with such an intensity to make him a beacon in the late daylight, but he stood out in his manner as a spectator even moreso. The men around him were a churning mass of roaring cheers, taunts, and beating chests, all bought into the spectacle of raw power and the contest of strength. Aziraphale, even when buffeted by the crowd like a cliff face by roiling waters, watched instead with a steady, hushed stillness, as though he were viewing something profoundly intimate he dared not disturb. 

Crowley could only compare it to how he had once seen him watching the humans in the Garden, but what had there been distant intrigue was here overwritten by something Crowley had never seen on _any_ angel’s face before. 

The audience whipped into an even greater frenzy as one of the men in the arena looked to gain the upper hand over his opponent, straddling his hips and pinning his arms to the ground in a move that Crowley mortifyingly found even himself blushing at. It at once rendered him _very_ acutely aware of his own male form, especially seeing Aziraphale respond to the sight before him with a full-body shiver and hitched breath. The rosiness in his soft face had gone _well_ beyond being solely attributable to the sun.

The hold lasted mere seconds, before the pinned man swung his knees up, grasping the would-be victor’s waist between tensed muscular thighs and rolling them over again with a grunt of exertion.

But brevity didn’t really count for much, given the sight of the challenger’s cock as it smeared oil through the coarse hair of his opponent’s belly had already very much left its vivid, searing impression. 

And that impression was currently resulting in a headrush that had Crowley feeling more than a little wobbly, if he was honest. 

Though Aziraphale was too far away to hear, he certainly _saw_ how the angel’s eyelids fluttered closed and how he bit his lip, trembling hands fussing with the hem of his chiton, carefully arranging the excess fabric in his lap. Even through the musk of so many bodies, the dizzying scent of lust cut through it and clung fast to Crowley’s tongue when he darted it out to wet his lips. But it wasn’t so much the onslaught of stimuli on his senses alone that had him reeling — it was the startling revelation of a picture they formed when pieced together.

Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, held amorous desires for men. And, if his polite indifference by contrast to the earthly rites of the temple priestesses back in Ur had been any indication, _only_ for men.

And just what the fuck was Crowley supposed to do with _that_ information?

(There was a clatter and a yelp of profanity as Crowley realized his hand holding the wine cup had gone slack, that the kylix had slipped from his fingers and bounced off a rock, nailing a nearby spectator in the shin. And Crowley knew in that moment, the fact he'd been so distracted he neglected to laugh even at that, was a testament to how utterly _fucked_ he was.) 

It wasn’t any of his business really, except in the sense that his brain and his prick were now conspiring to _make_ it his business. Bastards, the both of them. Hell had best be content with whatever misdeeds he'd managed to foment in his days here already, because he would not be getting much else done now that _this_ was inevitably going to be occupying every corner of his thoughts for the foreseeable future. 

All these centuries on the same planet together and he and Aziraphale had spoken maybe a dozen times. Crowley had been giving the new name a whirl for a good few decades by now and hadn't gotten around even to re-introducing himself to Aziraphale yet.

Yet here he was, wondering how he and Aziraphale might entertain discussion on their respective tastes, and who among the men they encountered most likely shared them — the way they'd gossipped in their scarce prior exchanges about crooked copper salesmen and Akkadian poetry. _Had_ he ever taken a lover before? What kinds of things did he like? Wasn’t it hilarious, how utterly bullshit the premise of that whole argument between Aeschylus and Phaedrus was, and how seriously they took it? Oh right, had he heard about that thing Dionysus invented? Pretty funny but also, erm, _useful_ , right? He could see the hedonistic angel sporting the types of Dionysian tendencies leading one to try something like that. 

Though, maybe more importantly, _did he know he wasn’t alone?_

Inevitably, Crowley would have to say _something_. These matters didn't exactly lend themselves to many confidantes of the heavenly sort, and humans could make a decent shoulder to lean on in a pinch so long as you picked the right one, but the burdens of divine and infernal responsibilities went a little beyond their scope of experience. Besides, this was certainly not the first thing the two of them had in common. The least Crowley could do was tell him that. 

Not yet, perhaps. 

Not with so many more thoughts still roaring and shouting in his head and competing for attention over the frenzied drunken cheers around him. Not with the match still very much ongoing and _gravely_ compromising his faculties if he so much as glanced to see who was winning. Not with the delicate intimacy he saw in Aziraphale’s expression of desire when he watched, almost reverent, like something between a guarded secret and a coveted treasure — even out here in the open among so much noise and clamor. 

This wouldn’t be the right time to carelessly bumble his way into that cloistered domain of Aziraphale's life. Not yet. And not here.

But someday. 


End file.
